Better With Age? Bull*!#%.
I’m not really old, mind you, but you wouldn’t know it from the way my body behaves. A myriad of maladies seems to have crept up on me, and if things continue to go downhill at the current rate, I will be wheelchair bound and tube fed before my kids graduate from High School. I offer you the following afflictions:
A few years ago, I was startled to find that I was horribly sore on a daily basis. Not from physical activity, mind you, but from SLEEPING. The hell? Seems the very act of resting is traumatic on my feeble body, and I would hobble out of bed every morning with sore arms, legs, and an occasional neck strain, to boot. It became so bad that I begged my husband to pony up and buy me the relief that a memory foam mattress promises. We did get one, and things are better. However, I often sleep in contorted positions because, God forbid, I disturb the dog, who only manages 20.75 hours of sleep a day. Yep, I go sleepless so that the hound may slumber. It’s self inflicted insomnia.
Strategic Sleep Positioning
Also related to SLEEPING- the insane amount of pillows I have to use to prop my body into sleeping position to try to avoid the sleep soreness. I used to merely like using a pillow between my knees, now it is a goddamn necessity. If my knees are to meet in the night, it feels like two slabs of granite slabs with thumbtacks between them grinding together. It is excruciating. Everything that touches my body at night seems heavy. At least it is not just me, though. One of my Dad’s best friends is a brawny former football coach who can be brought to his knees by a too-tight sheet. He admits that his bedtime ritual consists of sidling into bed and performing a flutter-kick for a minute or two to ensure that there is a nice breathable sheet pocket around his legs. No military corners for this man.
I used to laugh at people who went to restaurants for the early bird specials, thinking they were just cheap. Now I know better, since I am actually standing outside the door at 3:59, with my napkin tucked into my shirt like a bib. See, I’m not cheap, but I will get heartburn if I eat after 7pm. This puts a damper on my social eating, since normal people don’t go out until 7 or 8. I think many people think I am anorexic, but the shameful truth is if a trace of red sauce goes past my lips after that witching hour of 7, I pay, dearly. It’s a guaranteed sleepless night, with bouts of food induced nightmare hallucinations. I’ve learned too many times before, so I just won’t do it any more. SUCKS.
Fear of Spontaneity/Love of Routine
What the heck happened? In the old days, somebody could call me at 1am and I would be up for a party. Just recently, CJ stopped by my house to drop something off around 6pm. She was on her way out to meet a friend for drinks (she is younger than me, as she likes to point out) and she asked if I wanted to join them. Aghast, I said, “But it is already 6pm, and I’m already in my frumpies, and I just was not planning on this, at all. I just don’t think I can pull it off.” How sad. My husband was a regular wild man that no one thought could ever be tamed, but month by month the time keeps creeping up a bit as to when he dons his pajamas. Soon, he will change into his pajamas in the car on his way home from work. Pathetic, I tell you.
Hey, I’ve been to Lollapalooza, Lilith Fair, Inland Invasion, and countless other concerts. I had no qualms about body surfing my way around a mosh pit back in the day. Now? A PTA meeting with more than 12 people in attendance is likely to induce panic. Gone are the days of happily standing three rows deep at my favorite watering hole while waiting for a cocktail. If I walk in a restaurant or bar now, and don’t see an empty barstool situated dead center of the bar, I mosey on down to the next place, or just go home and shimmy into my frumpy finest. The best bar is the one in my basement.
*These afflictions have been kinda-sorta (but not really) embellished for your reading pleasure.